


like absinthe, half poison, half god

by gointorosedale



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Father/Son Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gointorosedale/pseuds/gointorosedale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumplestiltskin and Malcolm die together. Things happen.</p><p>(the author was drunk.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like absinthe, half poison, half god

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse except goddamnit they really looked like they were going to kiss and damnit booze.
> 
> That said, this is set in a weird AU of 3.11 where there was no one else around and they died slowly, because screw writing other characters.
> 
> All credit for the title goes to the lovely poet Clementine von Radics.

The first moment Rumplestiltskin sees his father – properly his father – again, three hundred years of hate seem to slither off his spine. It's not that Rumplestiltskin suddenly thinks better of him but it's so hard to keep hating a man who looks exactly like everything little Rumplestiltskin dreamed of.

The thing is, Malcolm isn't necessarily a good man, but he's a charming one. When he was in a bad mood he got silent and broody but when he was in a good mood, when luck was on his side during cards he was all broad boyish grins and extravagant gestures and with it he had the entire tavern entranced. He was one of those people, all jokes and good cheer, so joyful at times like that that it was impossible not to go along with it. He'd pull little Rumple close and ruffle his hair and buy him an ale with the gold he'd won, running his hand through Rumple's hair and resting it on his neck and the moment Rumplestiltskin first sees his father again he shudders, remembering the exact feel of Malcolm's thumb rubbing behind his ear.

It's that charm, that thing Malcolm has that makes everyone in the room crave his approval, his kindness, that comes flooding back the moment Rumplestiltskin is face to face with is father again. He looks exactly the way he did when Rumple last saw him, all scruff and never-quite-smarmy grin, and Rumplestiltskin doesn't know if he longs for or dreads the hand on the back of his neck but he shudders all the same.

Rumplestiltskin is staring at his father, looking into eyes he hasn't seen in three hundred years and still has memorized and he still can't make out a single thing in that expression. His father has always been a mystery in that sense, too much dramatic flair to ever really read, too careful an act, too much a magician, and Rumple finds himself wondering if Malcolm even remembers those years – their endless wandering, their _the next city is where we'll find out fortune, I just know it, son_ , the constant promise of a light at the end of the tunnel and always, always, hard beds and no breakfast.

He's waiting for his father to die, waiting for himself to die, and if there was to be any one end to the Dark One and the infamous Peter Pan then where else would that be but with each other? It's a slow going, it seems, but Rumplestiltskin feels weaker and weaker and he can feel his father's slight frame tremble.

Without thinking about it, Rumplestiltskin finds himself burying his hand in his father's hair and, feeling soft strand between his fingers, it occurs to him he's never really done that before. It feels easier now – with Malcolm trembling and breathing heavy in his arms, barely taller than Rumplestiltskin, eyes cloudy with pain. There's still an aura of power and charm, like Malcolm could – if he wanted to – rise up and draw a card from behind Rumple's ear with a flourish and the blood would vanish from his clothes like it never was, but it's dulled under his weakness.

“This is,” Malcolm says, voice like whiskey and nails on chalkboard “a very slow death.”

Rumplestiltskin has lost his sense of balance and his father has always been a heavy burden, and they collapse onto their knees in a tangle of legs, foreheads knocking together by half-accident. Rumple has nothing to say and he watches Malcolm coolly, calmly, waiting for the end.

“You could've made it quick, laddie,” he says, but it's slow and rough like trying to cough up diamonds.

Rumplestiltskin is still holding his father's head, fingers curled into his hair and digging into his scalp and the longer he holds the more it feels like he's holding up rather than holding on and somehow it sends a thrill of fear down his spine. He's been without a father for three hundred years, Rumplestiltskin doesn't know why the thought of losing him again scares him, makes him want to cover the wound with his hands until the bleeding stops and Malcolm gives that boyish smile.

“Never did listen to your dad,” Malcolm says but he's still looking into Rumplestiltskin's eyes and his voice still sounds like Rumplestiltskin buried the dagger in his throat instead of his back, and the words come out more serious than intended. There's an almost fond tilt to his mouth when he says it, like he's seeing all the thousand _Rumplestiltskin, wait here_ 's and _please shut up_ 's and _for god's sake, don't tell them_ and somehow it's not twisting his features into something angry and sharp. There's a real softness there, Rumplestiltskin thinks, hopes, because in his dying moments, at least in his dying moments let Malcolm feel some sort of love for his son.

Regina got that much, Rumplestiltskin childishly thinks, so let him have it too, even if he's to die after that.

Malcolm is falling further and further forward as he grows weaker, crumpling into Rumplestiltskin like his son's the only thing holding him up, like he hasn't always been the only thing holding him back.

Malcolm lowers his eyes, eyelashes brushing Rumplestiltskin's cheeks and he doesn't have time to think about the strange gentleness of it before Malcolm nudges himself further forward and presses his lips to Rumple's, all dry skin and stubble and trickle of blood, nothing like True Love's Kiss.

It's death and decay around the edges but soft and almost gentle in the middle or maybe the other way around, gentle sweetness hemmed in by darkness, like they've always been. For a second, Rumplestiltskin wonders what would have happened to him and his father of destiny hadn't needed him bitter and needy for familial love, if his father would've ever caressed his cheek with this much softness when he was a boy, if they would have had a love soft as rose petals.

This kiss is the softest and gentlest thing that's ever exited between himself and his father, Rumplestiltskin thinks, and that thought _hurts_ , like sharp aching under his ribcage, pinprick agony rising up on the back of his neck but his father is quick to reach out, bury his hand in Rumple's hair, cool the ache and brush his thumb behind Rumple's ear like no time at all has passed.

Malcolm pulls back and Rumplestiltskin tilts his head to look at him, to see his father here as he is, this wreckage of cracked lips and blood trailing down neck from his spit-slick mouth. His eyes are glossy and dark, unreadable as they ever were and after a long second looking into his father's eyes, Malcolm falls forward and buries his face in Rumple's hair, clutching the ends of it as he breathes words that may be _I love you_ and may be _fuck off_ and that will have to do, Rumplestiltskin thinks as he lifts his hand to envelop his father's, still resting on his neck.

This is Malcolm, his father, his enemy, and he can never be sure what the man means but it's about Rumplestiltskin – always, every action always about his annoying precious little son – and it will have to do.


End file.
